My palm closed over him through the boxers.
He made a sound into my mouth that vibrated against my lips, low and involuntary, and his hand tightened at the back of my neck. I worked my palm slowly along the length of him through the fabric, pressing him down against his own thigh, feeling the heat and the weight and the hard insistent shape of him through the thin black cotton. He was thick under my hand, the whole shape of him obvious through the fabric, and I dragged my palm up and down unhurried, squeezing gently, pressing him flat and then letting him up again.
“Fuck.” Breathed into my mouth. “Soren.”
I kept kissing him. I kept my hand moving. Thumbed along the ridge of the head through the fabric and felt the small damp spot that had already soaked through and pressed my thumb into it and heard the sound he made against my lips go raw.
His hand slid from my neck up into my hair and gripped.
“You are,” he said, low against my mouth, “going to ruin me.”
“Yes.”
I palmed him harder through the cotton, slow and thorough, and kept kissing him through every sound he made into my mouth.
I turned my head without meaning to, my hand still pressed against Rook through the cotton, and looked out through the glass.
Jace was on his knees.
He had gone down in front of Coach in the space between the window and the bed, and Coach had turned slightly, angling himself so the view was cleaner. Coach's boxers were pushed down to his thighs, his cock heavy and dark against his stomach, and Jace had both hands braced on Coach's hips and his mouth already open and waiting.
Coach's hand came down to the back of Jace's head.
Jace took him in one slow, controlled slide.
“Fuck,” Rook said above me, quiet and reverent.
I turned my face back up to him and found him watching the window. When he looked back down at me, the corner of his mouth ticked up.
“What?” I said.
“You see that?”
“Yeah.”
“Think we should show them how it's done?”
My pulse went somewhere loud.
“Yes,” I said.
“Yes what.”
“Yes, sir.”
His pupils blew further.
“Good boy.” His hand slid from my hair to my jaw, thumb pressing against my lower lip again. “Go on, then. Show him.”
got both hands into the waistband of his boxers and pulled.
The fabric was already stretched tight across the front of him, and I got my grip into the seam along his hip and pulled harder, and I heard the small tearing sound as the stitching gave under my fingers. The cotton split along the side, opening a jagged line from his waistband down to his thigh, and his cock came free in my hand with the fabric falling away from him.
I spat into my palm and wrapped my hand around him.
He was already leaking, the head slick and flushed dark, and I smeared the warmth of my spit down the length of him with one slow stroke and watched his head drop back against the chair. His whole body tensed through the thighs and his hand slammed back down to the arm of the chair, fingers digging into the leather.
I leaned in and spat on him directly.
